Right to Remember
by Mariole
Summary: Book canon gapfiller. In Ithilien, Eomer helps a recovering Frodo come to terms with his troubling memories of Cirith Ungol. Warning: Disturbing imagery in Part 4. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

"_They spent many days in Ithilien. … The hobbits wandered here and there visiting again the places that they had passed before; and Sam hoped always in some shadow of the woods or secret glade to catch, maybe, a glimpse of the great Oliphaunt." _

—"_The Field of Cormallen," The Return of the King_

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Sam pushed through the bushes, fragrant with young leaves. "He couldn't have come this way, sir," he said sadly. "The trees are too close together. There'd be a wreck from here to Highday, if he'd passed."

Frodo nodded absently. He supported Sam's preoccupation with finding the track of the Oliphaunt, largely because it allowed him to be out of doors and away from the encamped armies, a benefit that outweighed the physical discomfort of their increasingly longer tramps. The perfume of the new flowers was balm to him; he inhaled deeply, touching the tender buds. Docilely, he followed wherever Sam led, relieved that he was not called upon to set their course, or the pace, ever again.

Sam threw back his head. "Just listen to that waterfall!" Dimly, the hiss and rumble of the stream flowing past Henneth Annûn wafted through the forest. "No wonder Stinker found it, for all Captain Faramir's precautions."

The abrupt use of the old name stopped Frodo in his tracks. Slowly, he caressed a crinkled leaf between his fingers. Though only partly unfurled, its green was vivid, blossoming to gold where the sunlight slanted through it, soft and nourishing. He did not see, because he would not, the brilliant green of the scum that floated on stagnant pools chill, deep, and reeking. He did not see, because he would not, the skeletal guide that crept before them, testing the mats of rotten weeds with his fingertips, to see if they would hold a hobbit's weight.

Frodo lifted his head higher. He still heard nothing but the waterfall, and wind through the lush growth. But the very air seemed to pulse; after a moment, he realized he was feeling a vibration through the soles of his feet.

Sam, who had been peering farther into the wood, also straightened. He cocked his head, listening, eyebrows furrowed. "Someone's coming."

As with other sight, Frodo saw Sam and himself in another part of this same wood, creeping into a fern brake. From too close at hand, a deep voice had called, "_We shall have it like a coney in a trap._" Frodo's mouth went dry with remembered fear.

Apparently, Sam felt some residual alarm as well. He stepped hurriedly to Frodo's side. "Come, Master. We'll get behind the bush, here. Whoever it is needn't see us unless we want 'em to."

Frodo wanted to protest. He opened his mouth to say, "But Aragorn is now king, and there is nothing to fear." But his voice died in his throat; his knees felt like water. Without a murmur, he let Sam guide him to the far side of the voluminous shrub he'd been admiring. There, they melted into the dappled shade. Sam craned his neck, trying to see who might be following their trail. Frodo merely hunched into himself, listening to his heart pound.

Only a moment later, they heard it clearly: the beat of hoofs. The indistinguishable rumble resolved itself into the footfalls of perhaps a dozen heavy beasts. Frodo shrank farther under the sheltering branches. He had no wish to be trodden upon by an animal whose foreleg was as tall as his entire body. The protection of the bush he cowered beneath felt scanty indeed.

Sam, peering past the trunk through the leaves, parted his lips in surprise. "Well, I'll be. It's some of those Rohan riders. I wonder what they're doing so deep in the forest."

Frodo turned his head to look. Trotting through the trees, the first of the tall, gray bodies penetrated the thicket. Frodo saw the well-muscled chest, the slender legs that pumped with tireless strength, the glint of a stirrup behind, and a rider's thick-soled leather boot. The great animal swept past their hiding place, as more of the creatures entered the glade, some following the lead Rider, others sweeping round the bush from the opposite side.

Sam, straining his neck to see, gasped, "It's the king!"

At his words, soft though they were, the lead horse—who was now just past their hiding place—leapt into the air with a snort. Frodo gaped as an animal taller than a smial crashed stiff-legged to earth, shaking the very ground. The horse whinnied, tossing its flaxen-maned head. The ring of its dark eye showed white.

The rider pulled at the bit, dragging up his horse's head. Though startled, he adapted instantly to his mount's unusual behavior, barely needing to adjust his seat. "Whoa, Hyrulf," he called gently, followed by a soothing murmur of rippling speech. The horse arched its neck and blew, circling to stand facing the bush, eyeing it warily. The other horses skittered nervously, picking up their fellow's excitement, as their riders brought them expertly round to halt on either side of their leader.

Embarrassed over the near mishap they'd caused—wouldn't that be a wonderful introduction, to unseat the new king?—Frodo stepped from beneath the overhanging leaves, Sam close behind him. From the reaction of the horses, he had thought their presence would have been obvious, yet several of the Men cried out in startlement at their appearance, and their mounts shied and danced backward. Unnerved at being surrounded by such large, spirited creatures, Frodo kept close to the bush; nevertheless, he forced his manners to the front.

"King Éomer." He bowed deeply to the youthful lord. "My apologies, sire. I did not know you meant to ride this way."

Éomer's eyes widened. Hyrulf attempted to buck again, but the young king controlled him automatically, his eyes and attention fixed on the pair before him. "It's you! The Ring-bearer himself!"

Frodo bowed again. "Frodo son of Drogo, and Samwise son of Hamfast, at your service, my lord."

The tall Man stared, then swept from the saddle lightly as a boy. Before Frodo knew what he was about, the king of Rohan was kneeling before him, head bent.

Frodo opened his mouth to protest, when the quick movement of the rest of the company distracted him. Imitating their leader, the remaining men leapt from their saddles. Gathering their reins into one hand, they too bent their knees and bowed their heads towards the earth.

"Most honored friends," said Éomer.

Frodo felt truly discomfited. He glanced at his companion, to see Sam looking as distressed as he felt. "Good King Éomer," Frodo cried, "pray do not bend your knee to me. I am but a simple hobbit of the Shire."

Éomer raised his head. Awe and delight flickered in his blue eyes. "And I am but a Man of Rohan, one of the many countries of Middle-earth that would even now be under the heel of the Dark Lord or his minions, were it not for your brave deeds. Yet even if I felt no gratitude myself, would it be seemly for me to withhold my praise upon meeting you, when the High King himself chose to kneel before you at the victory feast?"

"I admit, that Strider has his own way of doin' things," Sam said. "But you weren't near enough to see the gleam in his eye. I think he was having a bit of fun with us, settin' us on his throne and all. Not meaning any disrespect to him or you, my lord—er, King Éomer."

A murmur circulated among the men, and Frodo felt dismayed. Sam addressing the High King by such a casual name as "Strider" would hardly help put the hobbits on a more humble footing.

"Please, Éomer King," Frodo said somewhat desperately. "Do get up."

The Man rose as bidden, and he was very tall—as tall as Faramir had been, that day. In an instant, Frodo's thoughts turned towards the last time he had found himself in a thicket in this wood, surrounded by a group of Men. "_But what have we found?_" said the well-remembered voice. Though urbane and curious, it had made Frodo's heart shrink from the unspoken threat.

But the Rider who stood before him emanated no such menace, overt or otherwise. His expression was open, even admiring. He wore the tooled leathern armor that was the fashion of Rohan, but his head was bare. His long, yellow hair was plaited for riding, even as was the mane of his fretful horse. His men rose when he did, returning to stand quietly by the heads of their inquisitive steeds.

"So," said Éomer. "I see that the legends are true. The Holbytlan can indeed avoid the sight of men, and appear or disappear in a twinkling."

"Your pardon, sire," said Frodo, "but I think we have proved ourselves to be entirely _un_successful at avoiding the eyes of Men. Or at the least, unsuccessful at avoiding the nose and ears of your most impressive beasts."

Éomer patted the neck of his skittish mount. "You did give Hyrulf a turn. But he is young, and inexperienced. That is why I wished to ride him into the forest this day. We have no such woods in my homeland. I had hoped the adventure might season him somewhat."

"He's a well-grown beast, and no mistake," said Sam. "Tall as two Shire ponies set one atop the other."

Éomer looked round keenly. "There aren't any more of you lurking about to astonish him, are there? Your friends…"

"Merry and Pippin have duty this morning," said Frodo.

"Of course," said Éomer, as if recollecting something.

"And right proud they are to serve," said Sam. "We'll never hear the end of it, back home."

"It is we who should be grateful for such service. Though Meriadoc swore allegiance to my uncle and not to me, I am honored that he chose to renew his oath to the Mark."

"I don't think the matter was ever in question," said Frodo. "He and the Lady Éowyn consider themselves comrades in arms, and rightly so."

"Indeed." Éomer smiled, his fondness for the subjects under discussion apparent in his face. At that moment, he might have been any young Man out on a pleasure ride; a certain tension left his face, though Frodo had not noticed its presence until it was gone. "Are you going much farther?" Éomer inquired courteously. "To the waterfall, perhaps?"

"Oh, no," said Sam. "We were just looking for… having a look round, as it were."

He colored slightly, and Frodo suppressed a smile. He doubted that Sam wanted to let all the world know about his odd fixation with finding the Oliphaunt.

"We shouldn't have gone much farther," Sam continued. "Mr. Frodo ain't quite his old self yet, if you follow my meaning."

"How so?" Éomer shot Frodo a sharp glance. "Are you fatigued, Lord Holbytla?"

Frodo inwardly cursed Sam for his easy tongue. Where Sam trusted, he trusted completely, and he'd obviously taken a liking to the young king. Yet Sam's carefree speech did little to assuage Frodo's embarrassment. "It is not far to the camp, Lord Éomer. The walk will do me good."

"We'll take it nice and slow," Sam said. "We always do."

Éomer's handsome face was troubled. "It is a league or more. That is a fair distance to walk when you are weary."

Frodo nodded at Éomer's mount. "That is a fair distance to climb, for one such as me."

The men chuckled at his jest; the sound reassured Frodo. For the first time, he began to feel at ease.

Too soon. For in the moment he was distracted by the amused Riders, the young king stepped forward and seized Frodo about the waist. Before Frodo realized what was happening, Éomer had placed him in the saddle of his tall mount. Frodo's eyes widened, as he observed the distance to the ground. The horse's front hoof looked disconcertingly small from this height.

"There, you see?" Éomer's teeth flashed white in his sun-tanned face. "Nothing could be easier." Before Frodo could collect his wits to answer, the king had swung up behind him. His body pushed Frodo forward in the saddle, so Frodo fearfully grasped the horse's mane. Éomer instantly put his right arm about Frodo, holding him snugly against his body. He collected the reins easily in his left hand, managing the fidgeting of his horse by the pressure of his knees.

"Folcred," Éomer called. "If you will do the same for Lord Holbytla Samwise, we shall bear our fatigued friends to camp, and save them a long march."

Sam's eyes widened as one of the tall Men stepped forward. He threw Frodo a desperate look, and Frodo barely shook his head. He wished that Sam had said nothing about his weariness, even though it was true. He would have preferred to travel back on his own feet, footsore though he often was these days, for the scars of the Black Land were slow to heal. But now that the king had already set him atop his horse, it would be an insult to refuse his help.

The Rider Folcred set Sam in the saddle of his horse. Sam snatched at the mane just as Frodo had done, then the Rider was up behind him, steadying Sam with a muscular arm. Frodo wondered if he looked as improbably small on his mount as Sam did on his. Frodo had gotten used to the company of Men, and looking up had ceased to bother him, but their tall steeds could still terrify him with their size and strength.

Éomer murmured a command. "_Padoch_, Hyrulf."

The horse whickered, then stepped out briskly, bobbing his head. Frodo seized the horse's mane at the movement, but Éomer tightened his grip on his passenger.

"Fear not, Lord Holbytla. Hyrulf is spirited, but he will not harm you, or try to bolt."

Frodo remembered how the horse had leaped about when Sam had first startled him. He said dryly, "He need only stop suddenly, and I will be over his head into the dirt. I have not your skill at horsemanship, my lord."

"No skill is needed, Lord Holbytla. Hyrulf will carry you safely. I am here to make sure that he does."

Frodo mulled, then said, "You would do me a kindness if you ceased to call me Lord Holbytla. I am a plain hobbit of no real account. I would feel much easier if you called me by my name."

Éomer paused. "Such familiarity would not be fitting, I think."

Frodo pondered, then said, "King Elessar calls me Frodo."

The man stiffened a moment, then let loose a hearty laugh. Frodo sighed with relief.

"Well answered, Master Holbytla," said Éomer. "Very well; you carry the day. I shall call you Frodo. And you shall call me Éomer, at least when we talk privately like this."

At this, Frodo hesitated. "That would _not_ be fitting, I think."

"It is entirely fitting. Frodo, the Men of the Mark are not so long-lived as the Men of the City—at least, not as long-lived as those from the houses of purer blood. Even so, I am full young to be king. Only a tragedy such as the one that has overset us all would have brought such a thing to pass. I fear I am but the lesser son of much greater lords."

"I am saddened indeed that I never was so fortunate as to meet your uncle. By all accounts, King Théoden was a worthy Man."

"He was indeed, especially at the end. Yet, when the mighty have fallen, the less must lead. So spoke Aragorn son of Arathorn when I first encountered him upon the North Downs. He was speaking of the loss of Gandalf, for that we then believed. Yet I can think of no man so worthy as King Elessar, nor so fitting to lead. I have loved him well from our first meeting."

"Then perhaps you can take comfort from his words, Lord Éomer. You may indeed be a lesser son, although your deeds imply otherwise. Yet you may also prove to be the Elessar for your own people. Aragorn did not step forth from the shadows as a fully finished thing. What he became, he brought about after years of labor. He is quite old for a Man, though you would not know it to look at him. The blood of Númenor runs strong in him. Indeed, he is likely the greatest Man of this Age."

"Then I will try to be patient, and follow his example. Yet I must learn quickly. For all that the War has ended, there is much rebuilding to do, and many hurts to heal."

Frodo held onto Éomer's arm, watching the scenery slip by. He was thinking of another quote of King Elessar's, something that Merry had repeated when he told Frodo of his adventures. Before his journey to the Paths of the Dead, Aragorn had said, "Many hopes will wither in this bitter Spring." Frodo felt the truth of it in his heart. Though the sun shone, and the leaves glimmered green in sparkling newness, yet the young king behind him rode with grief and doubt in his heart. Sometimes, like now, Frodo felt his own regrets pressing on him like a weight.


	2. Chapter 2

Frodo was surprised at how quickly that league was eaten up by the long-legged beast he rode. As he grew more confident that Éomer's hold was secure, he amused himself with his new vantage point: I can see the _top_ of that bush. I can see _over_ this rock. It made the experience less unnerving to focus on the scenery; nevertheless, Frodo wondered how Merry managed to cross all the vast distance from Rohan to Minas Tirith, perched on the front of the Lady Éowyn's tall mount. He had never before appreciated how notable was the feat.

The little party swept into the encampment, a host of tents set up in every open space among the trees before the sparkling waters of the Anduin. Riders and Gondorians alike bowed at the passing of the king. Frodo found his cheeks warming at the unwanted attention; he felt slightly foolish bouncing at the front of Éomer's saddle, like a truant who had been caught 'shrooming and was now forced to stand at the front of the class for his schoolmates' amusement.

Éomer drew his mount to a halt before the largest of the Rohirrim tents. The duty guard saluted and swiftly drew back the flap, as Éomer stepped easily to the ground. Frodo's heart gave a flutter as he found himself again the sole rider, but Éomer instantly reached up to lift him to the ground, even as a youth rushed forward to grasp Hyrulf's bridle.

"Here you are, Ring-bearer. Back all safe, as promised." Éomer set Frodo on his feet.

Frodo lifted his head to thank his new friend, when his knees unaccountably buckled. Instead of speaking his thanks, he found himself clutching the king's hands, as Éomer grasped him swiftly to steady him.

"Are you well, Frodo?"

"Yes." Frodo felt his face flood with heat. The other riders of Éomer's escort had swept up behind them; he desperately hoped that Sam had not witnessed his weakness. "My legs feel wobbly as noodles." He stepped in place gingerly, trying to work out the twinge in his hips. His feet took the opportunity to remind him how far he had walked that day, and flooded him with their own complaints.

"Riding is difficult work, if you are not accustomed to it," said Éomer kindly. "And you must—how shall I say it?—stretch farther, to get your legs across the back of a mount such as this."

"True." Frodo was much too embarrassed to face him. The fact was, the ride, short though it had been, had had a definite… straining effect on his thighs. And his… lower areas, informed him of just how hard a saddle can be to those who bounce unintentionally. His appreciation for Merry's determination to join Théoden's company rose to new heights.

"_Master!_"

Frodo briefly closed his eyes at Sam's urgent cry. His hope was vain; he had been seen.

"Master!" Sam cried again, rushing up. "Are you all right?"

Frodo turned to meet him. "I'm fine, Sam. I'm just not used to riding."

Éomer swept his hand towards the tent entrance. "Please, join me for some refreshment."

The king's kindness only made Frodo more self-conscious. He stammered, "I thank you for your generosity, Éomer King. But I must return to my own tent, for the healers will tend me today." He took one step, and his traitorous knee buckled again. Sam instantly was at his side, propping him up.

"The healers can attend you here," Éomer said. "Come, Frodo. Be reasonable. You must take some rest."

Frodo did not argue further; he had made spectacle enough of himself for one afternoon. Leaning upon Sam's arm, he minced into the tent, careful of his feet and his undercarriage. Éomer stood politely at the open flap until his small guests had passed within.

The tent was handsomely furnished with colorful wall hangings, thick woven blankets, and fine rugs. Frodo's abused feet sank pleasantly into the unexpected padding. A carved center pole raised the ceiling high, an unlit lantern hanging along one side. Éomer's seat was a tall wooden chair carved with horse heads. Frodo wondered if it had been fashioned on that very field, after the host learnt that they meant to stay awhile. Saddles, pillows, and blankets formed the remaining seating selection. They were arrayed in a circle around a low table placed upon a plush, richly dyed rug. Sam led Frodo to a saddle covered with a blanket, and eased him down against it.

Éomer remained a moment at the entrance, issuing orders, before ducking inside and joining his guests. He ignored the chair on the dais, and took his seat against a pillow near Frodo.

"They will bring us something to eat shortly." His eyes wandered over Frodo with concern. "Are you indeed well? I should not have bidden you ride, had I known it would distress you so."

"It ain't the riding so much as his feet," Sam put in. "When they get tender like this, it's a job for my poor master to get anywhere, and that's a fact."

Frodo looked at Sam in amazement. It was true. The peculiar stretching from his ride had already diminished after a few short steps. But his feet, after dangling unused for a while, had had time to become sensitive to any pressure. It was always a chore, toughening them each day into carrying him about as they should. "Sam," he said with mingled amusement and wonder, "how is it you always manage to know more about what I'm feeling than I do myself?"

Sam looked smug, though he tried to hide it. "I've been looking after you so long, I reckon I just got a sense built up that way."

Éomer indicated the stack of blankets next to Frodo. "Please, Master Samwise. Sit. You must also be weary."

"Oh, I could go on for a long while yet, if I had to. It's my master what had the cruelest time. Naught that I went through could compare with it."

"Sam." Frodo felt the color return to his face.

"I'm only saying the truth, as good King Éomer must already know." Sam settled himself next to Frodo, looking out the open flap. "Can you send word to the healers, sir? I'd hate for old Strider to get to our tent later on today, and find no one there."

Éomer sat up. "Strider! You mean… the High King attends you?"

"Not every day, but he knew Mr. Frodo meant to make a good walk today, so he planned to come by after teatime." Sam smiled. "He does have a gift for this sort of thing, not meaning to take anything away from the rest of 'em. 'Hands of a healer,' folks say, and they're right. No one does Mr. Frodo so much good as our King Elessar."

Éomer rose swiftly. "If you'll pardon me, I'll send word directly to the King. He'll know that you are taking tea with me, and not become alarmed by your absence."

Sam beamed. "Thank you, sir. That's well thought of."

Frodo winced, acutely embarrassed, as Éomer delivered his message to the sentry outside. The king returned, followed instantly by three servants who quickly laid an abundant feast. It was simple fare, hearty and good, the tea brisk and invigorating. Frodo ate to his heart's content. The conversation was soothing as well. Éomer asked no questions about Frodo's adventures, which Frodo had been dreading. Instead, he found himself exchanging memories of home with his host.

"So, no forests," said Sam, munching around a sourdough roll. "I think I should miss that."

"We do have forests, but of different nature from these in Ithilien. In Rohan, the trees climb the sharp slopes of the mountain vales, where it is too steep for riding. Woodcutters slide the logs down chutes to villages in the foothills, but wains must carry the wood far across the plain, to serve those who live in the open marches." Éomer's eyes took on a faraway look. "Ah, the sharp smell of the evergreens, wafting clean and bright upon a snow-kissed breeze. How bracing, the scent of sap from a fresh-cut limb. Yet even more do I miss the grasslands, the heart of my homeland and succor to our brave equine friends. There, the wind sweeps across the wold like waves upon a lake, over and over in patterns that never repeat. The long grass bows and whispers in rank upon rank, nodding and then standing tall, looking light and then dark in turn as the wind caresses it. That I could watch every day of my life, and never grow weary. I will be well glad to return thither—and shall love my homeland all the more for the memory of those who must remain behind, unwilling dwellers in a foreign land forever."


	3. Chapter 3

Frodo lost himself in the world Éomer painted. Rohan sounded so different from the Shire, yet Frodo found his mind traveling those vast, treeless spaces. Perhaps it was the longing with which Éomer spoke of his home that found an echo in Frodo's own heart. For whatever reason, Frodo was startled, as were they all, when the sentry ducked his head inside the entrance and quietly announced, "The High King Elessar to see you, my lord."

Éomer scrambled to his feet just in time to greet his regal visitor, who bowed his head to enter the King of the Mark's tent. "Lord Aragorn!"

Aragorn broke into a smile, and he held out his hand to his host. "Éomer, my friend." They clasped hands briefly, their respect for one another evident in their faces. Aragorn's eyes twinkled as he surveyed the hobbits, still nestled comfortably at table, too astonished for the moment to have moved. "I wondered what might have kept our Ring-bearers occupied for so long. I see now that you have provided plenty of provender. Your understanding of hobbits certainly increases."

"It does, to my pleasure," Éomer answered. "My understanding could hardly help but improve, as I knew so little to start with. I scarcely had a chance to speak to our revered Ring-bearers at the feast. Now, the more I learn, the more my respect for these bravehearts grows. They are truly worth all the honor you bestow upon them."

Sam, blushing, scrambled to his feet. "Now, Mr. Éomer—Éomer King, I should say. Don't go putting Mr. Frodo and me on a pedestal."

"Particularly after what you learned today," Frodo put in. At Éomer's puzzled look, he added, "Your new understanding, my lord—regarding my fear of heights."

Aragorn threw back his head and laughed. Éomer managed a lopsided grin.

"Unquenchable," Aragorn said, recovering himself. "That is what Gandalf calls them. I think you begin to see why."

"I do indeed. But now, your presence here tells me that I have kept my guests too long. You have come to tend Frodo, have you not?"

Frodo had neglected to stand with the others. Whilst his legs felt largely recovered, he didn't trust his feet to hold him; he often limped when he first rose. He had decided it would be better to appear rather too relaxed, than to stumble and have his three companions descend upon him in a frenzy of concern.

"I have indeed," answered Aragorn. "Mr. Baggins might be reluctant to claim some of my time, imagining it to be an imposition, I suppose. Yet I will not be remiss in my duties if my skills can bring him ease."

"We walked a good step today," Sam said cheerfully. "Nearly to Henneth Annûn."

"Where they startled my young stallion," said Éomer, "and my _éored,_ by stepping into the clearing from out of thin air."

Aragorn smiled. "I can see why, after such an experience as that, you would prefer to keep them under your eye. But now, Frodo, will you accompany me back to your tent? It will not do to neglect your injuries, particularly after a taxing day."

Éomer looked hesitant. "If you please, Aragorn, and if Frodo wishes it, you may work upon him here."

Frodo's lips parted, speechless. Aragorn raised his brows in surprise. "That is a generous offer, Éomer. But this session may run long; I would not displace you from your quarters."

"There are things I must see to in camp, duties that I have neglected this afternoon for the pleasure of meeting new friends. Please, if it will be easier on Frodo, do not feel you have to stir."

Frodo was too befuddled to respond. Then Sam said, "If you don't mind my saying, Mr. Éomer, that's a handsome offer. I know my master won't stand right now because his feet are troubling him. He won't want anyone to carry him to his tent because he thinks it looks bad, so he'll walk there on his own legs, even if it hurts him." Sam gave Frodo an apologetic look, as Frodo gaped at him. "I'm sorry, sir, but you know how you are. Stubbornest Baggins what ever lived, and that's saying something."

"That's settled, then," said Éomer decisively. "Arrange the blankets and pillows as best suits your purpose. Shall I send my sentry to get the materials you require from Frodo's tent?"

"No need," said Aragorn. "My assistant is outside, bearing what I want. You need only send him in."

"Then I shall do so, without further delay." Éomer inclined his head towards his guests. "Frodo, Sam, I hope we may often meet while we remain in the country together."

"Same here, Mr. Éomer—sir," said Sam. "You're a rare one for a good chat, and that's always a hobbit's delight."

"Until later, then."

Éomer departed, and Aragorn's assistant came in. This turned out to be Turagil, a healer who worked with the hobbits often. Frodo, feeling more foolish than ever, watched the two Men, supervised by Sam, fashion a low bed from the abundant sitting materials.

Turagil spread a sheepskin over the heaped blankets, forming a firm but soft platform. He bowed to Frodo with an arch smile. "Sir, your bower awaits."

Red-faced, Frodo started to climb to his feet. He didn't get far before Sam was at his side, steadying him as he rose. Frodo twinged in places he didn't normally twinge; the effects of Éomer's well-meant but unusual transportation had not yet worn off. Whilst the healers set their supplies in order, Sam helped Frodo with his buttons.

Sam nodded at the entrance, which had been left open to the mild afternoon. "Mr. Turagil, if you wouldn't mind…?"

The healer followed his glance, then immediately crossed to the doorway. "Of course." He lowered the flap, ensuring that the edges overlapped. There was plenty of light from the afternoon sun dappling the canvas walls and roof, suffusing the room in a golden glow, but at least Frodo would be ensured privacy regarding his person. He still felt awkward, standing as he was in a strange tent—the Rohan king's personal chamber, no less, which would soon see more of any hobbit than all of Éomer's longfathers before him had done.

Aragorn was practical as always. "You can lay his things across the saddle here," he told Sam, assembling his materials.

"Right, sir."

In the past weeks, Frodo had become resigned to the embarrassment of having the healers work upon his ravaged body, accepting it as a necessity. The poisons of Mordor lingered within him; he felt it in his shortness of breath, the recurring pains from his injuries, the malaise that crept over him at unguarded moments. It didn't help matters for him to observe how rapidly Sam was regaining his strength, for all that he had been nearer to death than Frodo when they were first brought in. Already Sam's face had lost its hollow look; his brown eyes glowed with alertness and pleasure, and there was a lightness to his step. In contrast, Frodo felt the weight of every one of his years, and more. He, who had rarely before endured poor health, now found himself in the disagreeable role of invalid. Considering that he had expected to be dead, Frodo supposed that a weakened constitution was a minor price to pay. Yet his frailty was distasteful, and his relatively slow progress frustrating. He tightened his jaw, as Sam helped strip away his garments.

Turagil draped a blanket round Frodo's shoulders when Sam stooped to remove his master's breeches. Pointless modesty, in a way, yet Frodo was grateful for it. He stepped out of his trousers, holding onto Sam's shoulder for balance.

Aragorn patted the sheepskin surface. "Face down to start with, Frodo."

Awkward in his oversized blanket, Frodo climbed onto the makeshift platform. The sheepskin was silky against his knees and palms, the blanket warm upon his back. He positioned himself, then sank onto the bedding. Luxurious softness hugged him from cheek to toes. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, as Aragorn draped the cloth more evenly over him.

Sam spoke from near his head. "All right, sir?"

Frodo mumbled into the fuzzy softness, "Perfectly, Sam. Thank you."

"Then, if Master Samwise will permit me," Turagil said, "I shall accompany him to his tent for his own treatment. Have you all that you need, my lord?"

Frodo heard the clink of bottles. "Yes. Thank you, Turagil."

"My lord."

Sam murmured his farewell, then Frodo heard the tent flap rustle and grow silent.

"Alone at last," said Aragorn lightly. "Now, Frodo, before we start—is there anything new you wish to call to my attention?"

Frodo felt the twinges in his legs and backside. "Not really," he mumbled into the fleece.

Frodo could almost hear Aragorn shaking his head. His next words, brimming with amusement, confirmed Frodo's suspicion. "Fortunately, I am more adept at finding out your discomforts than you are at hiding them from me. I think we shall start with a thorough massage, and then work the usual areas. Will that be acceptable?"

Frodo felt his face warm. "Er, yes. That will be fine."

Aragorn chuckled, and a cork popped from a vial with a musical tone. "Never fear, Frodo. All infrequent riders experience the same indignities. I shall soon be able to set you at ease."

"Don't tell Éomer," said Frodo, as Aragorn lifted the blanket to reveal his legs. "He really was very kind. I wouldn't want him to feel bad for trying to help me."

"I doubt Éomer would suspect the aches that can afflict a non-rider." Aragorn's slick palms descended upon Frodo's ankles, and began rubbing with skillful pressure up Frodo's overworked legs. "Everyone in Rohan can ride at the age of three."

Frodo winced as Aragorn began to work the back of his left thigh. "He wanted to keep me from hurting my feet."

"From the looks of things, he did well to spare you the walk." Frodo hissed as Aragorn began to work the inside of his thigh. "Your feet look rather raw. What possessed you to wander so far from camp?"

"Sam." Frodo flinched as Aragorn began rubbing the muscle in alternating strokes. He was right at the top of the thigh; Frodo determined not to mind it. It wasn't as if poor Aragorn had never seen his bum before. "He had this theory, about the path—ow! That's sore. About what path a raging Oliphaunt might take to reach the Great River."

"He figures Oliphaunts to be thirsty creatures, does he?"

Frodo jumped as Aragorn started working the big muscle in his rump. Oh, that was it! The sorest spot of all. Frodo bit his lip, and tried not to twitch. "No, it's just—_uh_! Just that the Oliphaunt was never seen after the battle…"

He trailed off. Aragorn was working his… sitting area, quite expertly with both hands. It was exquisitely painful and marvelously relieving at the same time.

"Are you cold?" Aragorn murmured after a moment.

Frodo started. He couldn't imagine how he might have drifted off with someone massaging his bum, but he seemed to have managed it. "Not really."

"Then do you mind if I remove the blanket? That way I will be able to work all the way up the spine."

Seeing as his bare bottom had been in High King's face for the last five minutes, Frodo felt the time for modesty was past. "Not at all. I'm quite comfortable."

The lovely pressure stopped, and the blanket slid aside. Cool air wafted over his skin. Frodo heard Aragorn slicking his hands again, then his big, warm hands came down at the top of Frodo's hips. Frodo hissed, as the Man dug his fingers into places that Frodo hadn't even realized hurt.

"Why does it—ow. Why is it so sore? Surely the ride couldn't have done all this."

"We all carry tensions inside us. Normally they sink below the level of conscious perception—fortunately, for otherwise we would be in discomfort all the time. But when someone works upon you, as I am doing, then all the unfelt areas of tension make themselves known."

Frodo moaned as Aragorn's clever fingers walked up his spine. "Yes, my unacknowledged tension has a good deal to say, I'm afraid."

"Spread out your arms… That's good."

Over Frodo's shoulders and back the kneading hands swept. Frodo felt himself sinking comfortably into the soft platform, as his mind grew drowsy again. After the initial pass, Aragorn started sweeping his hands from Frodo's neck all the way down to his ankles, then back up again—squeezing and soothing along the way, finding each knot and coaxing it to release. Perhaps not every knot. Frodo noticed there were certain areas Aragorn did not touch: the back of his neck above his left shoulder, and a narrow strip down one side. He could not see the injuries himself, but Aragorn's care told him that the wounds must still be inflamed. Frodo lamented his meager progress, then gave up worrying. He would heal when he did; his injuries must take their own time to recede and be forgotten.

After finishing his back, Aragorn worked Frodo's arms and hands one by one. Frodo smiled, even as he winced. He hadn't been this relaxed in an age.

Sleepy from the prolonged treatment, Frodo heard the clink of a jar. He started as a cool, moist finger traced a trail down the whip weal along his side. The familiar scent of Aragorn's healing balm filled Frodo's nostrils.

"How does it look?" Frodo murmured.

"Much better," said Aragorn. "I think this injury will cease to bother you very soon."

Aragorn next turned to Frodo's neck. Frodo braced himself, but flinched anyway when Aragorn dabbed at the place with a cloth, chill with cleansing liquid. Aragorn had explained that he must dig into the wound to remove the bad flesh, so it would heal cleanly. The knowledge made the thrice-weekly treatment no easier to bear. Frodo clenched his teeth, as Aragorn thoroughly cleansed the puncture, as gently as he could. There was a short pause, then Frodo jumped as a cold lotion made contact. As usual, the medicine burned, the fiery sensation growing worse as the seconds ticked by. Frodo dug his hands into the sheepskin, breathing deeply to offset the pain.

"I'm sorry, Frodo," said Aragorn sadly. "This is an evil wound, and slow to heal. The spawn of Ungoliant were the bane of Beleriand. Only Beren among all the people of Middle-earth passed through the terrors of Dungortheb to arrive, aged and stumbling, in the protected land of Doriath."

Frodo slowly released his grip as the burning sensation eased. "How did he manage it?" he gasped.

Aragorn began massaging the flesh around the wound with a fresh-smelling balm. "No one knows. It is said that Beren spoke to no one of his ordeal, lest the horror of it return to his mind."

Frodo considered this, as Aragorn put his medicine away. "That's what Sam said," he murmured.

Aragorn turned back. "What?"

Frodo closed his eyes tightly. "Nothing."

A breeze wafted over Frodo's skin, and the blanket settled back over his body. "All right, Frodo. Face up, now."

Frodo rolled over obediently. Already much of his stiffness had eased. Aragorn repeated his massage on the front of Frodo's body, though he kept the blanket draped over Frodo's middle. As usual, he spent some time palpating the area round the white scar that the Ringwraith's blade had left. Frodo felt it as a pad of thickened tissue above his left breast. Sometimes the old injury emitted a gripping cold; other times, like now, it felt merely numb, as if the normal function of that part of his body had been crippled forever.

Frodo recalled Sam asking Aragorn once, at a time when he thought Frodo was asleep, "Why don't you use that _athelas_ on him, Strider? It seemed to ease the cold before."

"_Athelas_ would not help him now," Aragorn had answered. "The wound has healed, and the dreadful shard was melted. But I fear such evil legacies of the enemy cannot be wholly done away. The scar of his wounding is deeper than flesh, and beyond the reach of my craft, or even Lord Elrond's. Friendship is the best medicine for Frodo now: the comfort of his friends, and the buoyant presence of your joyous spirits."

Gently, Aragorn worked his way down Frodo's legs, chasing away the strain of his walk and subsequent ride. Afterwards, Aragorn spent some time on Frodo's feet, massaging the toes and curly tops. Frodo sighed, feeling himself relax again.

Aragorn rose. "Onto your belly, Frodo. One last turn."

Aragorn tented the blanket over him whilst Frodo sleepily rolled over. He settled onto the sheepskin with a sigh. Aragorn covered him warmly, then began massaging the bottoms of his feet. They were sore, but not so sensitive that Aragorn's prodding fingers were at all uncomfortable. On the contrary, Frodo felt himself drifting into a deeper and deeper state of relaxation.

"Almost finished," Aragorn said in a whisper. "You must stay off your feet for at least an hour, to let the medicine soak in."

"Mm," Frodo responded, too sleepy to answer more fully.

The soothing rubbing went on. Time blinked. Frodo heard a rustling at the medicine tray. Another blink, and all was still. Frodo heard no more.


	4. Cirith Ungol

_Warning: This chapter contains violence and disturbing imagery. If this will bother you, continue with Chapter 5. Thanks. _

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Frodo woke with a throbbing in his head and screaming agony at his neck. Rough hands rolled him over, scuffing his knees and elbows on the hard floor. The movement was too much; Frodo retched. He had nothing inside him to bring up, but his body strained anyway, shutting off his breath and sending spikes of pain through his skull with every spasm.

Animal-like grunts and savage mutters surrounded him. He felt a flask shoved between his teeth, nicking his upper lip as it was thrust roughly in. Fiery liquid filled his mouth. Frodo gagged, tried to expel the vile brew, then gulped as the reflex to swallow overcame his revulsion. Heat poured into him, burning unwholesomely. He was thrown to the ground, his head cracking against stone. He lay there gasping, his impulse to vomit fighting with the heaving of his lungs, yearning for air.

Rough hands seized him—scaly skinned, trimmed with claws. He couldn't have stopped them if he'd tried, yet he was so weak and disoriented he hardly could mount even a token resistance. Hands tore away his pack and cloak, the brooch of Lothlórien scratching his throat as the catch burst open. More hands rolled him onto his back, ripping at buttons and fastenings. Filled with sudden dread, Frodo seized the hairy wrist tearing open his collar—_they must not see it!_ A vicious blow smacked Frodo to the floor again. Whiteness flashed behind his eyes. He felt himself spinning as if from a great height, whilst far below him, hands twisted and turned his body, moving him as they pleased until he was left bare and shivering on the stone floor, for all the wretched heat in his belly.

As the dizziness subsided, he grew aware of a commotion in the room. Someone was yelling—growling, actually, although there were words in the message that Frodo was too bewildered to make out. He could sense the mob all around him, their booted feet and hairy legs like tree trunks, giving off heat and stench; long arms dangling near their knees, their dank breath as they panted falling over him in foul waves that made his troubled gorge rise.

"Orders!" bellowed the big one near his head. Or so it sounded; the accent was foul and twisted. The brute was arguing with his fellows; now and then, a word came clear: _stripped, game, filth, fun._ At length, one of the band seized Frodo's legs and wrenched them open. A thick finger thrust into his body, so brutally precipitate that Frodo screamed. He writhed and kicked, but his flailing limbs were quickly captured and held. The finger prodded deeper, so Frodo thought he might split, then withdrew as abruptly as it had entered. Coarse fingers next encircled his sac. Frodo jumped, though still immobilized in the grip of his captors. His tormentor squeezed the base of his sac so tightly that all of Frodo's muscles tensed in agony.

Whether it was the surge of panic, or the bitter brew clearing his head, or perhaps his ear adjusting to the uncouth accent of his captors, Frodo began to understand what they were saying.

"I tell ye, he's for Lugbúrz!" shouted the big one near his head.

Another voice interjected, cold and harsh. "Safe and _intact_. Those are my orders."

"The orders said 'stripped'," came a guttural voice from Frodo's hips; it must be the orc who was squeezing him. "You want to tell the Higher Ups you neglected to look at what he's got in his pockets?"

"We have what we need." The sneering menace in the cold voice was even more frightening than the fingers imprisoning Frodo's bits.

A sharp claw tickled the taut skin of Frodo's sac, so he jumped. "Just a little slice," growled the deep voice, and a strand of slobber dribbled over Frodo's thigh. "We'll pop the goolies in the box with the rest, safe and ready for Lugbúrz."

"Gerroff!" snarled the big one.

The sound of a blow coincided with a shocking yank on his privates as the grasping orc fell away. Frodo's limbs were jerked or pulled painfully as the other orcs let go of him, either from being kicked loose or voluntarily to join in the fray. Frodo curled tightly in on himself, shaking and nauseated, nursing the painful throbbing between his legs. He wondered if he'd been damaged there beyond undoing—then closed his eyes in despair. Whatever happened next, it would not be any form of healing. Quite the opposite. His life before him would be one series of torture after another, each more hideous than the last, until he found himself as twisted and broken as his betrayer and one-time guide.

Beyond that, he couldn't think. _Lugbúrz_. The very sound of the name unnerved him. What could this be, but the place that housed the horrific presence that he had felt beating upon him ever since he had crested the Emyn Muil, more deadly even than the icy bite of a Ringwraith's venomous blade? He huddled in a ball, willing himself not to whimper from terror.

A full-fledged row had broken out in the room. Small as he tried to make himself, Frodo could not entirely escape the occasional kick or crushing footstep of the quarreling parties. At length the commotion died down, as most of the snarling pack were pushed and cuffed outside. A heavy door shut with a slam; iron-bound, from the sound of it. No, out of this place he would never escape, of that Frodo was certain. He wished he had greater courage to face the ordeal before him, but his teeth chattered and he shook in every limb.

"Yer lads will be for the Pits," growled the cold voice, "if they go disregarding orders this way."

"Nar, your lads are as bad," grunted the big, loud one. "Worse. I saw them eyeing the swag. You'd best keep a sharp watch on 'em."

"The swag stays with _me_," sneered the first orc. "So if anyone needs watching, it will be _you_, Gorbag"

The big orc spat. "Then put down your precious box, and get to work. We've the matter of those cut cords to clear up."

Frodo jumped as a metal box crashed to ground in a corner of the room. He tucked his limbs closer into himself, his heart racing as the booted feet drew near.

A clawed hand dragged up his head by the hair. Frodo kept his eyes shut tightly—the only escape he could manage.

"All right, rat." By the voice, it was the big one, Gorbag. "Where's your friend?"

Frodo's heart gave a great leap. In an instant, his outlook changed from complete despair to vague hope. The orc's question could only mean that Sam was not taken; he was not at this moment a fellow prisoner of the Orcs, stripped and beaten as Frodo was, or dead by some evildoer's hand. Sam had escaped. Frodo's heart wanted to sing.

A leathery palm slapped his face. Only the size of the hank of hair in the orc's grip kept Frodo's hair from being pulled out by the roots.

"By Gar, you'll tell me!" roared his interrogator, his foul breath choking Frodo. "You'll tell me everything you know, or you'll find yourself writhing at the end o' my spit. There's plenty we can do to the likes of you that won't spoil you for Lugbúrz." He shook Frodo hard enough to rattle his brains. "Now, where's the other one?"

Frodo, striving to remain conscious, gasped, "There was no one else."

A cool, slimy tongue licked up the side of his face. It took Frodo a moment to realize what it was, then he reacted wildly, fighting to pull away. A little farther off, the cold voice cackled at the sport.

"Sweet meat," growled the orc holding him. "I can see why Shelob fancied ye. No matter; you'll be for the pot in the end, one way or another. No prisoner comes out of Lugbúrz." The brute seized him round the throat, shutting off his breath. "Now tell me, where's your friend?"

Frodo's mind fled back to his words at the Dead Marshes. _Samwise Gamgee, my dear hobbit_—_indeed, Sam my dearest hobbit, friend of friends_—

Frodo opened his eyes. Gorbag's moist, oversized nostrils were flared, his matter-blotted eyes sunken deep into his lumpy skull. Two great teeth jutted from his lower jaw, like fangs. Frodo looked into the evil face. As clearly as he could manage, he said, "I was alone."

"_Garn!_" The orc dashed him to the floor, then kicked him in the chest for good measure. "You lying filth!" he roared.

"We know there was another," said the cold voice, as Frodo gasped and his head rang.

"Someone cut Her Ladyship's cords," bellowed Gorbag into Frodo's ear. "Sliced her webs off you, and stuck a pin in her guts, to boot!"

Clawed fingers twined in his hair, lifted Frodo's head. Though Frodo again closed his eyes, the sneering Orc continued in his face, "The joke is, after he cut you free, he left you lying, in plain sight of us all. All we had to do was pick you up."

Frodo's thoughts whirled. He knew he shouldn't trust the Orc's words; he would twist the truth to his own advantage. Yet Frodo didn't know how to interpret what the villain was telling him. Clearly, Frodo had been captured by the orcs, and Sam had not. Clearly, something about the way he'd been found had raised their suspicions. If Sam had meant to abandon him, why would he do it in a way that would alert his enemies? But if Sam didn't mean to leave him, why would Frodo have been left in the open, ready for anyone to find? None of it made any sense.

"He had no more use for you, I'll warrant, once you'd got him past Her Ladyship," scoffed the wicked voice in his face. "Was that your role—a dainty for Her Ladyship, and a distraction for us while he made good his escape? A regular Elvish trick he pulled, this so-called friend of yours. What friend worth the name would leave you as bait, to save his own skin?"

Frodo's confusion battled with dismay. Was it really as the orc said? Had Sam, indeed, deserted him for whatever reason? "No," he whispered.

His questioner slammed him against the wall; Frodo found himself dangling half his height again from the floor, held up only by the calloused hand that gripped him viciously round the throat.

"Who is he?" snarled the Orc, his glittering, blood-shot eyes even crueler than his companion's. "Where was he going? What was his mission?"

Frodo clasped the scratchy wrists, fighting for breath. He choked out, as well as he could, "There was no one but me."

The orc tossed him to the floor in disgust. Frodo curled up on himself again, cradling bruised limbs. _Samwise Gamgee, friend of friends_— Frodo found he was sobbing, though he hadn't moisture enough for tears.

"He left you for us to play with," growled the big one. "Seems to me you might want to pay him for his kindness. Tell us where he's hiding, and we'll go easy on you."

The futility of his situation came crashing down on him. Frodo hugged himself tighter into a ball. Hot tears pricked his eyes. "There was no one else," he whispered to the gritty floor. "No one." Frodo trembled, feeling the truth of the words in his soul: "I'm alone."


	5. Chapter 5

A large hand gripped his shoulder. Frodo leapt away, his legs tangling in a thick cloth that hindered his movements. He stumbled to his feet and stared, eyes wide. A dark presence loomed between him and the single light in the room, a lamp obscured by the shadowy outline of the massive creature reaching an oversized arm towards him.

Frodo scrambled away desperately, tripping over the uneven floor. "_Don't touch me!_"

His shrill cry was deadened by the shadowy walls. Naked, he scurried over the lumpy impediments scattered upon the floor—his torn clothes, perhaps, or his discarded pack. Heart racing, he whirled to crouch near the wall, keeping the dark, lumpy shape of some indescribable object between himself and his pursuer.

The door opened—not a door, but a flap. Frodo cringed, expecting more Orcs—then stared as two Men came into the room. They were fair-haired, clad as soldiers. They looked first at the presence in the center of the room, then at Frodo, cowering and naked on the floor. Their mouths parted in astonishment.

The one Frodo had fled from turned to address them. As he did so, the light of the lamp from the center pole shone clearly upon him. Light eyes, wind-roughened skin, yellow hair. He spoke softly yet urgently to the Men at the entrance, his speech indecipherable, but rolling and rhythmic in its cadence.

The world revolved, steadied. This was not the Tower. These creatures were not Orcs, but Riders of Rohan. The tall one in the center of the room was none other than their newest king. The lamp was a plain lantern of the type the Rohirrim used, its light a yellow glow, not the sullen red glare of the reeking, iron-clad lamp. The indistinguishable shape Frodo had placed between himself and the others was nothing more than a saddle resting upon a heap of blankets. The walls were canvas; what he had taken to be windows were periodic tapestries. The floor was covered with thick, soft rugs. Frodo shivered and relaxed, feeling faint in the aftermath of shock.

Éomer finished addressing his men, who left promptly, pulling the tent flap closed. He then turned towards Frodo, his face troubled. He held out a hand. "Frodo? Do you know me?"

Now that the initial panic had passed, Frodo had only to feel mortified by his behavior. He wanted to rise and go to the king, but—he was naked. He sank onto his knees, and put his hands over his face.

There was a rustle of footfalls over soft material, then Frodo felt a voluminous blanket being draped across his shoulders. He tugged it round himself, distressed to find how badly his hands were shaking.

Éomer sank onto a heap of blankets near him, yet not too close. Hesitantly, he asked, "Shall I send for Samwise, or the King?"

Frodo shook his head. He longed to find his voice, but worried that he might become ill if he opened his mouth. He huddled within his blanket, trembling.

Éomer continued softly, "I will not ask you what happened. I could see it in your eyes. You were somewhere else, reliving some evil memory." He paused. "Though you now know where you are, it clings to you still. I'm sorry."

Frodo hunched miserably, shivering. He wished he could answer, but the scene blurred behind a veil of tears. His throat felt too tight to talk.

The tent flap opened. Frodo turned his head away, as Éomer rose to greet the newcomers. Frodo heard the rattle of dishes on a tray, a few deep words of resonant speech, then retreating footfalls and the rustle of the canvas flap. This was followed by a clink from the area near the table, and the gurgle of liquid being poured. Then soft footsteps padded towards him.

Éomer knelt beside him. "Try this." A large hand gently detached one of Frodo's from its grip on the blanket. A warm mug wafting fragrant steam was pushed into his hand. "Sip. You'll feel better."

Frodo managed it—not gracefully, slopping a little of the liquid as unsteady hand met trembling mouth. The tea was mildly sweet, pungent and bracing. Frodo sipped again, and felt some tight knot inside him release.

Éomer said softly, "Of all the wounds of war, I think this is the worst: the remembered horrors in our minds that will not give us peace."

His gentle words tipped Frodo over the edge. A rush of hot tears spilled down his cheeks. He lowered his head.

The mug was lifted from his hand. An arm went round him, pulling him close. Frodo often resented the difference in size between himself and most other races of Middle-earth; even the weakest Man or Orc could overpower him. Yet Éomer's grip was respectful even as it was encompassing. For a moment, Frodo felt he could surrender to a world where everything was bigger than he was; larger, more in control of itself. For a moment, Frodo could feel how insignificant he was, and take comfort in it. The huge arm cradled him tenderly; the wide chest summoned all-but-forgotten memories of another time and life, when Frodo was a lad, and security was an oversized embrace and the lilt of song drifting from the kitchen.

"Forgive me," Éomer murmured. "Had I known my intrusion would recall such memories, I would not have entered. I came merely to summon you to the evening meal."

Frodo leant against Éomer's chest, breathing deeply as he tried to regain his composure. He had not the smallest interest in attending the feast. No matter how respectful the men were, their eyes always followed him. Frodo had no wish to be seen, doubly given his current state.

"I have sent word to the King just now," Éomer continued, "that you are resting, and will take dinner with me. Have I done right?"

Frodo sniffled, and tried to sit up. "Yes. Oh, yes." He wiped away the tear tracks. "I'm sorry, Éomer. I never wished to burden you with my troubles."

"It is no burden. On the contrary, I would consider it the highest compliment if you would stay and be comforted. Allow me to help you to table."

"I couldn't eat now. Please, just… give me a moment."

Éomer put the mug back into his hands. "Take all the time you need."

Frodo wondered if his adventures would ever come to an end. Probably not, as long as he lived—or rather, as long as he lived among such different folk as these. His latest adventure was something he never would have imagined, even as late as that morning: sitting upon soft rugs, naked, wrapped in a coverlet-sized blanket, sipping a mug of fragrant tea while the King of Rohan hugged him about his shoulders with one muscular arm.

In a couple of minutes, Frodo felt stronger. Éomer seemed to sense it; he loosened his hold. Wordlessly, he took the empty cup from Frodo's hand.

Frodo cleared his throat. "You've the gift of silence, my lord."

"Sometimes words are little more than wind in an empty sky. You're feeling better?"

"Much."

Éomer rose. "I imagine you'll feel more yourself after you are dressed."

Frodo ducked his head, feeling his cheeks warm even as he laughed. "As you say. It was odd enough for me to disrobe in your tent to begin with. It should have been more awkward for me still to find myself nearly in your lap just now, but you made it easy for me. I thank you." He hesitated. "I'm afraid I've rather made a spectacle of myself."

Éomer retrieved Frodo's things from where Sam had left them. His face looked thoughtful as the lamplight fell upon him. "If you are worried about Éothain and Framgar, they are knights of my household. They will speak to no one of what they saw, not without my leave. Be easy about them."

Frodo blushed as Éomer handed him his clothes. He couldn't help thinking that Éomer would make a very good king; he had cut to the heart of what was troubling Frodo, and deftly defused his concerns. Now, he left Frodo to dress in privacy, returning to the low table and discreetly turning his back as he set out the various dishes that his servants had brought with the tea.

Frodo was glad not to have an audience. Despite Aragorn's excellent ministrations, his muscles had stiffened up again. The ache in his sitting bones reasserted itself, and he minced on the soft flooring, accustoming his battered feet to once again taking the pressure of his weight. The various winces and bobbles made for a ridiculous display, and he was relieved not to have a witness.

Before too long, Frodo was able to join Éomer at the table. The young king had already heaped Frodo's platter high, and filled both their cups with the thin, refreshing wine the gentry favored in Rohan. He smiled as Frodo approached, then turned to face the west. Frodo turned also, observing the ritual. At its conclusion he bowed to Éomer, then joined his host on the soft pillows.

"I did not know before that the Riders of Rohan observed the Standing Silence," he said.

"I observe it here," said Éomer. "We are visitors in a foreign land. If King Elessar honors the old customs, it seems only courteous, if not prudent, to do likewise in his realm, does it not?" Éomer's smile faded as he tore open a loaf. "But there's something more to it, I think. When I first met Aragorn, he seemed like a legend sprung to life out of the grass. Sometimes, when I am with him, I think that I, too, can smell the air of Númenor; for in his presence I perceive not merely the memory of a kingdom long vanished, but a living scion of the land itself, embodied with wisdom and nobility before my eyes. Then I begin to think that anything is possible; for if such a one as the heir of Elendil can return again to the throne, perhaps other things we think have been lost might also be stirred to life, had we but the hardihood and the resolve to try."

Frodo realized he was staring. Hastily, he broke his own bread. The outer crust was tough, the inside soft and airy. He dipped it into the gravy, and said, "If I may be so bold, Éomer King—much as I revere the Lord Aragorn, I think he is not the only king who might be considered wise."

Éomer laughed. "Nay, I deserve no such compliment. I am a simple Lord of the Mark, and I see things plainly."

"Forgive me, my lord king, but I believe you could see through a brick wall in time." At Éomer's quizzical look, Frodo added, "That is a saying they have in Bree, a town near to my homeland."

"Ah. A plain-speaking people, these denizens of Bree. I like that. Will you tell me more about them, while we dine?"


	6. Chapter 6

The meal passed pleasantly, though not with the ease of their afternoon repast. Though Frodo talked determinedly of his home, or the lands near his home, or other places from his travels in the north, his ugly awakening stayed with him, hovering just over his shoulder like the night shadows that ringed the tent walls. Éomer doubtless felt it, too. When the meal was over, and Frodo was reclining with a fresh mug of tea, Éomer fixed him with a serious look.

"We have spoken much of your travels. Yet, in all your words, you have wandered nowhere near the land in which we are encamped, and certainly not to what lies beyond."

Frodo lowered his head. He had been dreading the follow-up question all meal. But here again Éomer had been wise; had he asked it earlier, Frodo would certainly have been unable to eat.

Frodo said, hesitantly, "I believe it is as you said yourself, lord. Sometimes words are just wind in an empty sky."

"And sometimes they are the key to a locked door." Éomer set down his goblet decisively. "Frodo, I saw your eyes when I startled you from your sleep. I have never seen such horror and despair. I confess, it chilled me to my marrow—and I fought at the Black Gate."

Frodo looked away. "Beren One-Hand would not speak of the horrors of Dungortheb."

"Beren—he is the hero I have heard Aragorn speak of."

Frodo nodded.

"Then I think Beren One-Hand and Frodo of the Nine Fingers have much in common."

Frodo shifted uncomfortably. "I am no hero, Éomer."

"Your deeds would suggest otherwise," Éomer said, playfully throwing Frodo's words back at him.

But Frodo was in no mood for jest. He huddled upon himself. The fear was back, even at such an oblique reference as this.

Éomer reacted to his change of mood instantly. "Forgive me. I have no right to question you. Perhaps I should return you to your companions, with whom you can discuss this more freely."

Frodo hugged himself, rocking from his distress. "They don't know," he whispered.

Éomer started. "But… surely Samwise..."

Frodo shook his head. "I tried to tell him, once." His voice sounded strange, thick and strangled. "He said that…" Frodo broke off, breathing hard.

'_They stripped me of everything; and then two great brutes came and questioned me, questioned me until I thought I should go mad, standing over me, gloating, fingering their knives. I'll never forget their claws and eyes.'_

'_You won't, if you talk about them, Mr. Frodo,' said Sam. _

Éomer left his seat. As he had done before, he settled next to Frodo, steadying him with a surrounding arm. This time Frodo turned his face into the king's chest, seeking refuge there. He was breathing hard, trembling all over.

Éomer held him gently but securely; his hand stroked along Frodo's arm. It was comforting, but the terror had taken control of him again, and he couldn't stop shaking.

"What did Samwise say?" Éomer murmured.

Frodo swallowed hard. He would not be sick in the king's chamber, not after all Éomer had done for him. "He said… I would never forget it if I… if I talked about it."

"I see." Éomer's hand continued stroking down Frodo's arm, patiently and rhythmically. Frodo felt himself start to relax. As his breathing evened out, it suddenly occurred to him that this must be how Éomer soothed a frightened colt. No matter; the method was effective, whatever its origin.

"Frodo," Éomer began, and his tone was thoughtful. "There are those who believe as your friend Samwise does—or as Beren One-Hand did, come to that. In truth, I don't know which is the better course. Sometimes sharing our pain can help us to bear it better. I know something of what I speak: I held Háma in my arms as he mourned the death of Théodred, and I held Éothain as he mourned the death of Háma. I shall never forget the reek of the Pelennor Fields, the shock that came over all of us as we came to realize our losses: brave Grimbold, brilliant Herefara, so many Riders valiant and fair: Déorwine, Harding, Fastred—and of course, the Lord of the Mark, Théoden King, who was like a father to Éowyn and me. Long vigil my Riders held that night—without me, for I had gone to my sister. But they bound up their wounds, and spoke of their kinsmen and friends, and so came to bear the anguish of their loss a little easier, so they might face the next task steadier in heart.

"I am no wise man or healer, Frodo. I may be king in name, but in my heart I am Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshall of Riddermark. Though all of Rohan is now my charge, yet these are the things I know: the windswept plains, the companionship of horses and Men, the songs that honor the fallen. We will see the sweet Simbelmynë cover yet more of our gallant folk, but their memory will not sink beneath the grass, for we will chant the sum of their deeds beneath the sun so their lives might sink into our hearts. Their ends might be evil, filled with woe—but how can we remember our friends rightly, unless we acknowledge what has been? The tale is not complete until it is spoken to the end. At least, so we believe in the Mark."

Fresh tears streaked Frodo's cheeks as he listened to Éomer's words. He blotted his face unsteadily with his handkerchief. His voice was a harsh whisper. "I never meant to tell my friends what… what happened. It would grieve them too much; especially Sam, and he really did all that he could—more than anyone could have hoped."

Éomer nodded. "What then do you intend to do? For these memories—forgive me, Frodo, but they must be dealt with. You cannot hope to carry such a burden unacknowledged; it will eat you from within."

"I thought… I thought perhaps I might write it down. I promised Bilbo I would keep a record—he's my uncle. Well, not really my uncle. More of a cousin. But he raised me after my parents died, and there is no one dearer to me in the world."

"I understand." Éomer caught Frodo's startled eyes, and smiled sadly. "My parents died when I was eleven. Afterwards, my uncle took Éowyn and me to live with him in Edoras."

Frodo stared a moment in surprise, then looked away. His heart beat very fast.

"Such a strange coincidence, don't you think?" said Éomer. "But perhaps it was meant to be so—that two strangers should find an echo of themselves in each other's lives. In our despair, we often feel alone. It is easy to forget that there are others who might share our burden, particularly when we have carried it alone for so very long."

Frodo let Éomer's words sink into his soul. The dark memories still clung to him, but he no longer felt overwhelmed by them. Frodo began to realize that this talk with Éomer was a gift. For the first time, he glimpsed a chink in the darkness, no less startling than the sound of Sam's gentle song, drifting up through the cracks of the trapdoor in his vile tower prison. He bolstered himself, and pushed forward.

"It was… Gollum." Frodo stumbled over the name, swallowing it almost as the poor wretch had done when he lived his miserable existence.

Éomer's arm tightened round Frodo slightly. "Yes. Go on."

"He betrayed us. The… the Ring had twisted his promise. I knew that it would. It was so strong, Éomer. It was like a pounding in the brain and blood, growing louder and more potent with every step towards the Black Land. He hadn't a chance; none of us did."

Frodo began to shake again. Éomer dipped his head, so it rested lightly atop Frodo's. It was as if Éomer was making a shelter of his body, keeping Frodo safe within.

Frodo swallowed and plunged on. Now that he'd begun, the words poured out of him, nerve-wrought and shrill. "He planned to turn us over to Shelob, a great, hideous spider. That way she would do the killing, and he could take the Ring afterwards. I thought we'd escaped her. I was running for the Pass, so relieved to be free of her loathsome lair, and something hit me from behind. I felt—a blow. And then…" He shuddered. "Such evil dreams…"

Éomer held him firmly. "What happened to Sam?" he murmured.

Frodo dashed a wrist across his eyes. "He was attacked by Gollum. I learnt that part later. Gollum tried to murder him while Shelob attacked me. That's why he wasn't with me. I had run ahead, foolishly, and Sam was delayed. By the time he caught up and drove Shelob off, he thought me already dead. Then he decided… for the sake of Middle-earth, he had to complete the errand. That's why he went on. He would not have left me, had he known I was alive."

"But… he did leave you," said Éomer gently.

The tears spilled down Frodo's cheek. "Oh, Éomer, how he berated himself for that! I think he considers it as the worst thing he ever did. Do you wonder… wonder why I can't tell him?"

"Not at all. But you are not telling Sam. You are telling me."

Frodo shuddered. It all came back, as vivid as in his dream: the reek of unwashed hide, the shuffling of iron-nailed shoes, the click of claws and gabbling of foul-breathed bodies. The pulsing ache at the back of his neck made him feel ill and weak. He flinched, as if the hard-fingered hands might seize him once more.

"Frodo." Éomer's voice drifted down to him, warm and sure as the arms that held him. "What happened to you, in the hands of the Orcs?"

Frodo drew an unsteady breath… and told him.


	7. The Boon

The lamp had burned low. Frodo lay back against the pillows, completely enervated. The telling had been brutal, almost as exhausting as the ordeal itself. Now, Frodo felt strangely light. He was weak as a kitten, but oddly content.

For a long time after Frodo stopped speaking, Éomer had simply sat with his arm around him. Stirring himself at last, he had piled up the pillows round Frodo, and wrapped him warmly in a blanket. He poured Frodo another draught of wine, then crossed to the entrance and exchanged a few words with the sentry outside. Afterwards, he seated himself once again near Frodo, and seemed to gaze into the distance.

"You give yourself short shrift, Frodo," he said at last.

Frodo started. He had almost dozed off in the aftermath of his arduous confession. "What do you mean?"

"You never betrayed Sam." Éomer fixed him with a look. "Though they beat you and questioned you, you never gave them Sam's name, or told them anything about him or your mission. Not many folk of any race would be able to say the same."

Frodo looked away.

"I had long known that one of you was never caught. The cruel Mouth of Sauron had told us that much, though he did not realize it. 'Spy from the little rat-land of the Shire,' he had said, intending to taunt us. So it was clear that our enemies knew about one of you. But the presence of the mithril coat together with Sam's sword was confusing. Still… 'spy', he had said. Not 'spies'. So one of you was yet free and unseen. That was all the hope that we could carry with us into that final battle: that though we might fall before the dire gate on poisoned ground, yet the destiny of the West was not sealed. One of you might yet be plodding towards the mountain, carrying the doom of Middle-earth. Instead of fighting with bitterness, knowing we would perish in this lopsided engagement, we fought with hope, a hope that we captains conveyed to our men—for we had still that slender thread to cling to, that one of you might yet win through." Éomer smiled. "Consider: though you knew it not, you eased the hearts of many in that last desperate Host. We had expected to march to our deaths, for victory by arms was not achievable. Yet how many Men fell upon the field that day who thought, as the light left their eyes, 'My sacrifice is not in vain. Hope lives on, though I do not.' That is the gift your courage gave, Frodo. That is the outcome of your solitary battle in the Tower—the fruit of your refusal to give in, even though all hope for yourself was gone."

Frodo stared, then put his face in his hands. He had thought he had cried himself out. But this… boon that Éomer had given him, was too strong to contain. He let the words fill him up, until knowledge of his reprieve overflowed in tears.

A deep voice outside the tent startled him. Hastily, Frodo wiped his eyes. Éomer rose fluidly and went to the entranceway. A few murmurs were exchanged, and Éomer alone returned. He set a new pot of tea on the table.

"I think a sedative is in order," he said, pouring a fresh mug.

Frodo blotted his face, and sat up to take the cup. The aroma was not quite the same as before; it was more pungent, the taste sweeter. Frodo sipped gratefully, feeling the warmth curl through him, easing his raveled nerves.

Éomer poured himself another cup of wine, then busied himself with tidying the remains of their meal. Frodo watched him idly, until it occurred to him what he was seeing. Frodo sat forward. "Lord Éomer, please feel free to send in your servants."

Éomer looked round at him curiously. "Why?"

Frodo nodded at the table. "Because… you're the king. It isn't fitting that you…"

Éomer seemed surprised, then a slow smile spread over his face. "No, I suppose it isn't. We are a pair, are we not, Frodo? A whole day spent in conversation, and we have yet to determine what is or is not fit for us to do."

Frodo returned the smile weakly. "I suppose even Aragorn tidied his own dishes, until he became High King and was forced to turn that duty over to others. Not that I suppose he minded very much."

Éomer finished stacking the tray. "It does not seem likely that he or I will be able to do these simple tasks for ourselves again. Perhaps we might slip away some year, and spend a week or two hunting in the forest. We will skin our own meat and light our own fires, and scour our battered cookware as shoddily as we please."

Frodo laughed. He could not have believed heart's ease could have returned to him so quickly—but the image of two great kings, with muddy knees and patched clothes, seeking solitude in the forest, was too much for him. Suddenly Frodo held still. Beyond the entrance, he heard the lilt of familiar voices.

"Well, it sounds as if _someone_ is having a pleasant evening," said a light voice from just outside. The next moment the flap parted. The sentry's head peeked in, but beneath him, Pippin was clearly visible in the gap, the slice of light from the lamp striking highlights upon his Gondorian armor, and revealing the shapes of others around and behind him.

Éomer nodded. "It is all right, Framgar. Show our guests in."

Framgar held wide the flap. Past him filed three hobbits: Pippin, looking eager and curious; Merry, who gave a deep bow to the king before he proceeded more than a step; and Sam, anxiously straining to see Frodo past the taller forms of Merry and Pippin. Upon their heels came Gimli, looking fierce and content, and Legolas, whose eyes twinkled with inner laughter.

The entire party bowed to Éomer once they were inside, and Framgar let fall the flap. Éomer gestured to the low seats round the table. "Make yourselves comfortable, my friends. Or perhaps you have come merely to return Frodo to his tent. I fear I have kept him rather long."

"He kept you, more likely." Pippin peered intently round the tent. "You probably said 'Shire,' and haven't been able to stop him talking ever since."

Frodo felt himself blushing, to his consternation. "It's true; I did talk rather a lot."

"And you look plumb tuckered out on account of it," cried Sam, rushing to his side. "Poor Mr. Frodo; your eyelids look ready to drop down on their own, they do."

"Better mine than King Éomer's," said Frodo, in an attempt at levity.

"Nonsense," said Merry. "You've always been an engaging tale-teller—the best, save for dear Cousin Bilbo, perhaps." Merry looked at Frodo keenly, and somewhat suspiciously. Frodo wondered what his clever cousin could see in his face. "You had an interesting discussion?"

"Decidedly," Éomer interjected, to Frodo's relief. "I learned more of Bree and Rivendell—and Buckland—than I had ever hoped to discover. Frodo is a font of information."

Éomer's ruse worked; Merry's ears perked up at the mention of Buckland. Frodo imagined King Éomer would be hearing much more about it before long. He suppressed a smile.

"Well, you certainly have unearthed a hidden side of our cousin, King Éomer," said Pippin, finishing his investigation of the wall hangings. "Frodo hardly tells _us_ a blessed thing."

"Mr. Pippin!" cried Sam, reprovingly.

"He was talking of his home," Gimli put in. "That will loosen one's tongue, as any friend of the Dwarves must know," he concluded with a wink.

Frodo smiled. "Yes, your father warned me about that at our first meeting. But it is a comfort to speak of things dear to one's heart, especially when everything has been so horribly uncertain."

"And now I believe you will travel easier." Legolas' bright eyes swept over Frodo. "Your spirit has certainly lightened as a result of this day's work. I sense that no small burden has been lifted away." His gaze flicked to Éomer, who was observing Frodo with a decidedly satisfied element to his smile. Frodo hoped that no one else would notice.

"It's all very well to talk of easy travel and lightened burdens," said Sam, "but we're still a fair tramp from our tent, and Mr. Frodo will have a job of it walking all that way in the dark—particularly when he's so done in to start with."

Éomer was instantly alert. "I shall be honored to escort you to your quarters, Frodo."

"On… horseback?" Frodo asked hesitantly.

Éomer nodded at the tent flap. "I can have a mount here in two minutes."

Frodo felt his face reddening. "Will the mount come equipped with… a pillow, my lord?"

Everyone laughed, except Éomer, who looked surprised.

"It's no small matter to ride one of your great beasts, my lord." Gimli's teeth flashed in his beard. "Take it from one who knows. Am I right, Merry?"

"Er, well." Merry looked from Gimli to Éomer, obviously torn between wanting to spare Frodo the ride, and not wishing to give any insult to the king or his sister.

Legolas stepped forward nimbly. "There is more than one way to cover the ground, I think. Frodo, you indeed look weary. Will you allow _me_ to carry you home?"

The other members of the Fellowship fell silent. The hobbits exchanged apprehensive looks. Frodo understood their wariness well. In their association with taller beings, the hobbits were most particular to walk on their own legs; they had troubles enough being overlooked without being carried about like children. Now Sam looked at Frodo anxiously, wondering how he might react.

For himself, Frodo felt no such hesitation. Perhaps it was all he had been through, tonight and… before. Perhaps he had learnt something from the young king with his disarming openness of heart.

Frodo smiled. "I would be honored to accept the aid of the Prince of Mirkwood, if he is so kind as to offer it."

Merry and Pippin's mouths dropped open. Sam merely looked relieved. He started briskly towards the entrance. "We'd best be getting a start, then. It's not getting any earlier." He called to the sentry to open the flap.

Frodo rose, stumbling a little as his feet and sore muscles took up the load. Legolas steadied him with a barely perceptible hand on his shoulder. Regaining his balance, Frodo bowed low. "King Éomer. I owe you much for your company this evening."

"I rejoice that you found some comfort in it. I count myself fortunate to have spent so many hours with Frodo Ring-bearer, bravest of heroes."

Everyone bowed again, though Frodo felt his face burning. Before he had a chance to recover, Legolas swept him lightly up. Frodo found himself meeting the Elf's bright eye. "Ready?"

Sam and Framgar had the flap opened wide to the night. Sam turned round, looking impatient.

"Ready," Frodo answered Legolas softly. "And we'd better hurry."

Legolas laughed a silvery laugh. Lightly he stepped over the cushions, ducking his head to carry himself and his passenger outdoors.

"Really," Pippin said to Merry, following them out, "I think we ought to consider carting Frodo about ourselves until his feet are better, now that he's not being so thick-headed about it. We're nearly as tall as Gimli."

"But not half my weight," the dwarf grunted.

"It's not as if he'd be very taxing," said Merry, ignoring Gimli's remark. "He used to run us about pig-a-back when we were lads. About time to return the favor, I say."

Behind them, Frodo heard Sam murmuring a farewell to King Éomer. "…looks better than he has in many a day, for all he's that tired. You're a good friend to him, sir, and I won't forget it."

"I hope you will not," said the king, "for rarely have I found such delight in a new acquaintance. Please, act like a friend, and do not stay away."

"I reckon our paths will cross more'n once, when we're in such a pile. And I'll be right glad when they do—monstrous great horses notwithstanding."

Éomer laughed. "Goodnight, Sam."

"Goodnight, Mr. Éomer King."

Legolas stepped effortlessly into the night, needing no lantern to see his road. "Do you smell it, Frodo? The breath of the sleeping flowers?"

Frodo inhaled deeply. He smelled it and felt it—a soft fragrance wafting over his skin, like a caress.

"The land is waking from a long, cruel winter," said the Elf, "and my heart is glad."

"The nightmare is breaking," Frodo murmured, then blushed to realize he'd spoken aloud.

"So I have observed." Legolas grinned. "Look up, Frodo. How brilliant the stars!"

They indeed sparkled like jewels—or did, before they were obscured by tears. Legolas began to sing. Frodo nestled deeper into the warmth, enjoying the voices of his friends around him, and the beauty of the night enveloping him. For the first time since his awakening, Frodo began to feel in his heart… he was not alone.


End file.
